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Carved Cupboard (Dramatic Reading)

<h3> Bringing Bad Tidings </h3> 'A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday.'—Pope. It was towards the end of February that old Nannie sat by her fire in the peaceful almshouse in which she had taken shelter. Rain was falling fast, and when she heard a knock at her door, she hardly turned in her chair, for she thought it could be only one of her neighbours come for a chat. When the new-comer came silently forward and stood in front of her, Nannie looked up with a gasp and a cry. 'Miss Gwen! My dear Miss Gwen, is it you? Where do you come from? And oh, how ill you look!' Gwen bent over the old woman and kissed her; then she took a seat by her and gave a hard little laugh. 'Oh no, I am not ill. I wish I could be—at least, I am almost coward enough to wish it. I only landed early this morning in the London Docks. I have come from California, Nannie. Aren't you glad to see me?' Gwen was clad in a plain dark blue serge and sailor hat, but somehow had not her habitual neat appearance. Her face was wan and white, she seemed to have aged ten years, and her once sparkling eyes were now dim and worn-looking. 'Just off a voyage,' murmured Nannie, putting on her spectacles and peering anxiously into her face. 'Ay, my dear, surely them foreign parts don't bring such change and misery to all the folks who venture out?' Gwen laughed again. 'Every one, I hope, has not had my experience,' she said. 'If I may quote from your favourite book, Nannie, I can say truly, "I went out full, and have been brought home again empty!"' '"The Lord hath brought me home again empty,"' corrected Nannie. Then Gwen leant forward, and taking Nannie's two hands in hers, she said in a hard, strained voice: 'Nannie, I have come to you because I am desperate, and I thought perhaps you would give me courage to face them at home. I have never had such a hard task set me in my life; but I deserve it, and I am not going to flinch from my duty. I have ruined four people's lives, my own included!' She strangled a dry sob in her throat, then went on,—grasping the withered hands in hers, as a drowning man might a rope,—'Nannie, do you remember my verse you gave me this time last year?' 'Ay, Miss Gwen, my dear, surely, and many's the prayer I've offered up at the throne of grace for you! "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass!" Maybe you've come to the end of your own ways by this time—will that be it?' 'Judgment has come on me. I was so sure, so certain of my plans. I frustrated every difficulty, I forced some against their will to assist me in carrying them out; and yet all this last year your verse has haunted me. I was determined to be independent of God. I was so self-assured, and my pride and spirit carried me through all, that I laughed at the idea of failure; and then when the blow fell, it crushed every atom of self-confidence and spirit out of me! I am a poor, miserable, broken-down creature, Nannie; what can you say to help me?' Nannie gently withdrew her hands, and leaning forward, placed them on Gwen's shoulders. Then in a tender, solemn tone she said, '"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!"' There was dead silence for a few moments, and then Gwen bowed her head in her old nurse's lap, and tears came thick and fast. Nannie let her cry on, but her lips moved in prayer. 'Dear Lord, Thou hast smitten to heal; Thou hast broken to mend; let her meet with Thee now, and get Thy blessing!' 'I have never shed a tear until now,' uttered Gwen at last, looking up at Nannie with almost a pathetic look in her tear-dimmed eyes. 'I felt my trouble was too great for tears. I was turning to stone until I saw you. Oh, Nannie, if you knew all, you would be sorry for me!' Will you be telling it to me, Miss Gwen?' 'Yes, indeed I will.' Gwen gave a rough sketch of her life for the first month with her brother. She told of the bitter blow it was to find him about to be married; and then told Nannie of Mr. Montmorency's arrival, and the pressure put upon her brother to sell his farm, and join him in his quest for gold. 'I gave him no rest, Nannie, until he promised to do as I wanted. I even went to the girl he was going to marry, and coaxed and entreated her to add her persuasions to mine. She was bitterly disappointed, poor little thing, at their marriage being postponed, but she was thoroughly unselfish, and only thought of Walter's good. Mr. Montmorency worked hard too. He wanted more capital, and said Walter must do his share in getting it, if he was to be a partner, so I worked with all my might and main to get it for him. I persuaded Meta Seton to invest a legacy of hers in the scheme; I wrote home and implored all the others to invest in it too. I put all the money I had myself in it, and then when all was done, and I had broken up Walter's home, I sat down in complacency and waited for the success that was sure to follow. I can't tell you when the first doubts of the whole thing crept into my mind. I only know the last four months have been ones of torturing suspense and uncertainty. I wonder I have not come home grey-headed. The crash came six weeks or so ago. Mr. Montmorency, after ruining himself, my brother, and hundreds of others, decamped, and has not been heard of since. It was simply a mad speculation set on foot by a clever man with little capital of his own. Walter is ruined; he has crept back to his own part of the country, and has to begin life all over again; his hopes of a married life and a happy home have been dashed to the ground. Meta's father is so enraged at his daughter's legacy being lost, that he has forbidden Walter the house, and his bride as well as his farm has been taken from him. I wonder he did not curse me, as he came to see me off in the steamer; but his face—the hopelessness and despair written there—was quite enough for me. And now I am going back to break to Clare and Elfie that they as well as myself are absolute beggars. Agatha was the only wise one amongst us. She refused to trust Mr. Montmorency with one farthing of her money.' 'Ay, my dear, it's terrible—terrible for you; but loss of money is not ruin. You have health and strength and youth to sustain you, and though the cloud has been dark, it will have a silver lining!' 'How can I tell them!' cried Gwen; and her face grew set and hard, as she stood up, and dashed the tear-drops from her eyelashes. 'They have no idea I am returning home, or what has happened. I have been to our lawyer before I came to you, and though he has heard bad reports of Mr. Montmorency, he has never said a word to them. Do you realize I have beggared our whole family, Nannie? Poor Clare has had trouble enough of her own, without this in addition; and Elfie, who has never had a care or thought, how will she take it? I wish—I wish I were dead!' 'Hush, hush, my dear!' said Nannie, almost sternly. 'That would be a coward's wish, and you are not that! If you learn the lesson the Lord would have you learn, you may yet live to find that this big trouble has been the biggest blessing in your life.' 'Do you think if I had been like Agatha, who prays even if she goes shopping that she may spend the money properly, and if I had committed my plans to God, this would have happened, Nannie?' 'No, I don't think it would,' was Nannie's grave reply. Then there was silence, which Nannie broke by begging Gwen to have some refreshment. 'No, thank you, Nannie, I must be going. I wish I had done with life, and was in an almshouse with you. It would be so easy to be all that one ought to be. Good-bye, you old dear. Pray for me, for I have a dreadful time before me, and I don't see how on earth we are to live. I shall have to earn money somehow at once. Perhaps I shall go into service—that is the fashion now. Ladies are becoming servants to the class who used to be in service. Give me your blessing and let me go!' Gwen was talking fast and lightly to hide her emotion, but old Nannie took hold of her hands and looked up at her very solemnly. 'My dear Miss Gwen, you have heard God's voice speaking to you many times since you were a little girl. You are hearing it again now. Are you going to close your ear to it? If your pride and self-confidence is crumbled to dust, 'tis the opportunity to confess it to Him who hates a proud look, and says the humble shall be exalted. Take your bitterness of soul to the Saviour, and He will heal and comfort you. Promise me you will listen to His voice!' 'You're a saint, Nannie; I promise you I will pray, if I have never done so before. Good-bye.' She went out into the pouring rain, found her way back to the station, and an hour after was at Waterloo Station starting for Brambleton. She was just getting into the carriage when some one accosted her. It was Clement Arkwright, who had travelled out to California with her. He looked unfeignedly pleased to see her. 'Just come home again, Miss Dane? How did you like California?' Gwen hardly knew how to answer him. A rush of memories came over her. The time on board ship when she had so systematically avoided him, and cultivated with assiduity the one who had ruined her, stood up before her with awful distinctness. But she pulled herself together, and tried to speak unconcernedly. 'I am glad to be back again.' 'How is your brother? I hope the report I heard was not true, that he had joined Alf Montmorency in his search for gold?' Gwen was in the carriage now, and the train was just starting. She spoke on the impulse of the moment, and Clement Arkwright never forgot the look of despairing hopelessness on her face as she held out her hand to him. 'Good-bye—we are off. You told me once that I would bring disaster upon myself by my obstinate wilfulness. I have done so. You warned me on the steamer against Mr. Montmorency. But I would not listen, and he has ruined the whole lot of us.' The train steamed out of the station, and Clement Arkwright turned away with a grave, thoughtful face. 'Poor Gwen! Yet it will be the making of her, if she can once be got to confess that her judgment is not infallible. I should like to get hold of that scoundrel!' It was about five o'clock when Gwen reached Brambleton. She left her luggage at the station, and tramped through the driving rain and wind with fierce indifference, arriving at Jasmine Cottage with drenched garments, and weary, footsore feet. The lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, and the shutters were not closed. Gwen stepped quietly up to the window and looked in. It was a cosy, cheerful scene. Agatha was sitting with a smile on her face by a bright fire, knitting in hand. Clare was reading aloud on the opposite side of the fireplace, and Elfie in her favourite position on the low fender-stool, tempting a grey Persian kitten to perform acrobatical antics with Agatha's ball of wool. 'How changed will be the scene a few minutes later!' thought Gwen bitterly, and she knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by a maid who had superseded Jane, and who looked suspiciously at the drenched figure. 'You have mistaken this for the vicarage,' she said superciliously. 'If you want shelter or food, you will get it there!' Gwen swung her aside with a quick impatient laugh, and opened the drawing-room door. In another moment, with cries of astonishment and delight, her sisters were caressing and welcoming her; but she pushed them away from her. 'Let me tell you how I come back first,' she said sharply. 'You will not give me such a hearty welcome when you know. I have ruined Walter; the gold company has been a big swindle, and every penny of our money has all gone. Now what do you say to me?' 'Never mind the money now,' said Agatha, who was never discomposed. 'Come upstairs to bed at once, you are wet through. How could you walk through such a storm! Not another word till you have had something to eat. Come along—you are dead beat.' She led her away, motioning to Clare and Elfie not to follow, and they stood looking at each other with dazed, bewildered eyes. 'Does she mean it? Is it really true?' exclaimed Elfie, 'Oh, how ill she looks!' 'What a dreadful thing for Walter!' was Clare's response; and then the full force of Gwen's words dawned upon them. 'Whatever shall we do? Agatha's hundred pounds will not keep four of us!' When Agatha returned to the room, nearly an hour later, she found an anxious consultation going on by the fire. Her face was just as placid as usual, though a shade graver. 'I have left her to sleep,' she said; 'it is the best thing for her. She seems quite worn out, and I think it is best for none of us to go near her till the morning.' 'Is it really true what she says?' 'I am afraid so. I would not let her give me details. She is so filled with remorse at having persuaded you to invest your money so, that I saw she was working herself into a perfect fever over it, and I stopped her at once. I am thankful she is home again. I have been very uneasy about her lately.' 'I never thought you were uneasy about anything,' said Clare, trying to smile. 'We are planning what we can do to earn our livelihood, Agatha,' said Elfie. 'Have you any idea to give us?' 'We will not go into that to-night,' was Agatha's quiet response. 'This house is our own, and so is the furniture. We have sufficient for the present. When Gwen has got over the fatigue of her journey, we will have a talk together about ways and means.' Just before going to her own room for the night, Agatha stepped quietly into Gwen's room. She found her lying wide awake staring at the flickering fire with a hard set face, and determined lips. Agatha came up and put her hand on her forehead. 'You are feverish,' she said. 'Are you comfortable? Do you not feel sleepy?' 'Would you?' was the quick retort. 'I am sure I should, after the journey you have had. Oh, Gwen dear, don't look so! There are worse losses than money. Don't reproach yourself too much.' And Agatha was so touched by the hopeless misery in her sister's face that tears filled her eyes. Gwen looked at her, and her face began to soften. 'You're a good old thing, Agatha. I wish I were more like you. You will need all your faith and prayer now, and so will the others. Good-night.' She turned her face away, and with a kiss and an unspoken prayer, Agatha left her. <h3> CHAPTER XVII </h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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